


Steadfast

by Calais_Reno



Series: Speculative Shorts [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Memories, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Fairy Tale Elements, First Meetings, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Lo and behold, what curious things can happen in this world.-- Hans Christian Andersen
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Speculative Shorts [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856791
Comments: 34
Kudos: 70
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	Steadfast

Visiting Grand-Mère was never much fun, but being sick at her house was the worst. She had ideas about drafts and infections and fed him broth instead of the juice he asked for.

“Sick little boys must stay in bed until they’re well,” she said, frowning at the thermometer. “No playing outside.”

“I’m not little,” Sherlock said. “I’m six.”

“And you’re running a temperature,” she replied. “While your mother and father are traveling, I’m in charge of sick boys, little or not.”

Mycroft, being thirteen, was traveling with Mummy and Father, so there was no court of appeal.

“Will they be home for Christmas?” He asked this because it was hard for him to imagine Christmas anywhere other than in his own house, sleeping in his own bed and waking to see the tree sparkling with fairy lights, presents heaped beneath it, brought by Father Christmas. There would be a goose, and a pudding, and mince pies.

He wasn’t sure that Father Christmas ever visited Grand-Mère. Her house was deep in the country, far from town.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she replied. “You must be patient.”

“But there’s snow!” He thought of the perfect sledding hill outside the house, leading down to the pond. The ice was hard enough, he knew, and if Mycroft was here, he would take him skating.

“It’s boring being sick,” he objected.

“I’ll bring you a book.”

“I don’t feel like reading. My eyes hurt.”

“Oh, _pauvre petit_ ,” she sighed, and left the room.

Just when he was beginning to feel truly sorry for himself, she returned, carrying a box. On the side it said _RUDY_ in big block letters.

“These are some of your uncle’s old toys. If you’re careful, you may play with them.”

Exploring the snowy woods behind the house, pretending to be an arctic explorer, would have been more fun, but he knew better than to argue with Grand-Mère.

He opened the box and reached inside. First, there was a yo-yo, a toy that didn’t work right unless you were standing. Since he wasn’t allowed out of bed, he set that aside for later. There was a bag of marbles, which were nice to look at for about five minutes, but ultimately no good for bed. A kaleidoscope provided more amusement, but once he’d figured out the limits of the device, he put it back into the box. He was happy to discover a half dozen matchbox cars. These he drove all over the coverlet, making motor sounds and creating smash-ups. The bed clothes were not ideal for having races, but making mountains and valleys out of the sheets entertained him for another hour.

Remaining in the box were a book of jokes, a set of animal rummy cards, a magic sliding box for disappearing a coin, and a pretend magic wand. He knew that it was a magic wand because beside it was a magician’s top hat, collapsed flat to fit in the box.

He popped open the crown of the hat. As he raised it to set on his head, something fell out and landed in his lap.

A toy soldier.

Quite old, he decided as he examined it. It must have been old when Uncle Rudy was a boy. It was small enough to fit in his palm. The paint, red and blue and white, was only a bit chipped, which was surprising given its obvious age. The explanation for this was clear when he noticed one leg was broken off. This toy had a defect, so it had not been played with much.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked the little soldier.

There was no reply, naturally. He studied the tiny face. Under the white pith helmet, the eyes stared resolutely ahead. The hair colour was hard to tell. Maybe it had once been yellow. The jacket was red, the trousers blue with a stripe running down the sides. The soldier held no weapon, which was disappointing, but his hand was shaped to receive one. Perhaps a tiny sword or rifle had once fit there, but had probably slipped out of the box at some point.

He shook the box, hoping to find a weapon or another soldier. A horse might be too much to ask, he supposed; besides, the soldier’s legs were not shaped to ride one.

“Where are your brothers-in-arms?”

The soldier had one whole leg and another half-leg. There was no stand to keep him upright, and it didn’t look as if there ever had been.

“I wish you could tell me what happened to you. You’re all alone, separated from your brothers. Did they leave you behind because you’re lame?”

The tin soldier warmed in his hand. He studied the stump of the missing leg. It was really just the bottom part that was missing, but it didn’t look as if it had broken off. Rather, it had been defective when it came out of the die.

Maybe it could be fixed, he thought. He’d seen Father fix one of Mummy’s candlesticks when some of the ornament was broken off. That had been Sherlock’s fault, knocking it off the mantel with his airplane. Father said that he should help with the repair, but he hadn’t really done much besides watch. And he’d learned that a special tool could repair metal things better than glue.

He frowned at the soldier. “But you don’t even have a foot I can put back on your leg.”

The soldier regarded him unblinkingly, frozen steadfast in his military pose, one arm raised without a weapon, the other one at his side.

There wasn’t much you could do with a broken soldier other than play hospital. Taking a bit of tissue, he wrapped the stump, using his own spit to wet the makeshift bandage so it would mould to the leg.

“There,” he said. “You’re in hospital and can’t walk around until you’re well again.”

Setting him aside, he took the wand out of the box and waved it experimentally. Being an observant boy, he knew that magic wasn’t real. Mycroft used to read him stories with magic sometimes, but always made sure to point out how none of the magic things could happen in the real world. They were just stories.

But there was such a thing as make-believe. He himself was not a pirate or an explorer, but in pretending, he had become those things many times— until he wanted some lunch, or until his feet became too wet and cold, and reading a book by the fire sounded better than playing in the woods.

He set the hat on his head. Even if magic wasn’t real, it would be fun to learn some magic tricks. Perhaps the hat had a false bottom where something could be concealed and then— presto! — revealed. None of his family would think it amazing, though. They weren’t that kind of family. Mummy would smile and without even looking say, _that’s nice, dear._ Father would chuckle and go back to his newspaper. And Mycroft would explain how the trick worked because he was thirteen and spoiling fun was what older brothers did.

Taking the hat off, he felt around inside. Yes, there was a false bottom, which must be where the soldier had hid. Returning it to his head, he waved the wand, twirling his wrist as he did so, because he’d once seen a stage magician do that.

“Hocus Pocus! Abracadabra!”

It didn’t do much good to say the magic word, not even in pretend, unless you knew what you wanted the magic to do.

The soldier lay looking up at him from the part of the coverlet that was serving as a hospital. He picked him up and held him in his hand.

“I’ll fix your leg— by magic,” he said. “Abracadabra!” He pointed the wand at the wad of tissue binding his leg. “Lo, your leg is healed by this spell. Presto!”

He knew that the leg was not really fixed, but the bandage was coming loose so he took it off.

And lo, the stump now had a tiny boot, just like the other leg. It was whole.

Even though Grand-Mère had said he had a fever, he didn’t feel strange, as he had when he’d been sick with the flu last year. His eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, making everything wobbly and blurry. He could see the soldier just fine, and the tiny man now had two legs.

Nothing in his life up until then had given him reason to believe that magic was real. But he knew for a fact that adults often hid things from children, thinking they would not understand. Maybe magic was like babies being born, or people getting divorced, or the diseases nobody would talk about— _real_ , but not something children should know about.

He would have to try it again to be sure. Setting the soldier on the coverlet, he pointed the wand andsaid, “Hocus-pocus! By my magic I now command you: speak!”

The soldier blinked his tiny eyes back at him and lowered his sword arm. He then looked down at his legs.

“Thank you.” His voice was as tiny as he was.

Sherlock was raised to be polite, so he said, “You’re welcome. What’s your name?”

Snapping to attention, the little soldier saluted. “Captain John H Watson, at your service.”

“Sherlock Holmes, at yours. How does your leg feel?”

Captain Watson shook his leg and walked around the coverlet, testing it out. “It’s perfect. As if it were always there.”

“How were you injured? Did an enemy soldier shoot you?”

He shook his head and took off his helmet, revealing blond hair. “My brothers and I were all made from a tin spoon. I am the youngest, and when the tinsmith began to pour me, he didn’t have enough tin to fill the mould.”

“What happened to your brothers? Why aren’t they in the box with you?”

He shrugged. “When the boy played with us, I couldn’t stand without falling over, so he always put me aside. I got lost under a heavy bureau in his father’s office, and stayed there in the dark for a long time. Finally a new boy found me. But my brothers were already gone. I suppose they were put in a box and given away. That’s what always happens to old toys.”

“That must have been boring, not being able to move, waiting for someone to find you.”

“I didn’t mind so much. I listened to a lot of conversations. And I knew someone would find me again.”

“How did you know you’d be found? How did you know someone wouldn’t sweep you into a dustpan and toss you in a bin?”

“I suppose that might have happened, but I was hopeful. Being a tin soldier, the worst thing that could happen was that I’d be melted down. But I wasn’t afraid. The new boy used to keep me in his pocket. He said that touching me reminded him to be brave.”

“You are very brave,” Sherlock said reverently. “I would be afraid of being lost forever, or that someone would toss me in the bin.”

“No, you would be brave, too. You don’t know how brave you are until you have to use your courage.”

“I could never be a soldier.” Sherlock liked seeing soldiers, so sharp in their uniforms. And he liked seeing their weapons, but he didn’t think he could do a soldier’s job. “Did you ever kill someone?”

“I haven’t, but I could. Once I had a sword. But I’m a doctor, too. An army surgeon. That’s the job I was given because I couldn’t line up and march like the others. I stayed in the field hospital and took care of the wounded. I’m a very good doctor.”

He heard feet on the stairs and knew Grand-Mère was coming up to check on him, probably bringing more broth.

“Shh,” he warned the soldier. “I have to pretend to be asleep. Don’t make a sound.”

He snuggled down under the coverlet, the tin soldier tight in his hand, and breathed heavily and evenly, as if he were asleep.

Grand-Mère’s hand rested on his forehead. “You’re cooler,” she said. “Sit up now and have some eggs and toast.”

This was a welcome change from the broth, and he ate every bit of it while she watched.

“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.

He felt strangely reluctant to show her. She might take it away from him, even though she’d said he could play with the toys in the box. In Grand-Mère’s house, she was the law.

“Just an old toy soldier,” he said. “I was playing with him.”

She held her hand out, and he opened his fist. Captain Watson looked like a regular tin soldier now, not a magical one who could talk. He put it in her hand.

“This is very old,” she said. “It wasn’t your uncle Rudy’s. It might have been my father’s.”

“Did he have tin soldiers?”

“I don’t remember any, but lots of boys played with them back then.” She studied it for a long moment, and Sherlock’s palms began to itch. What if she decided it was too old and valuable to play with? What if she took it away?

“Grand-Mère,” he said. “Is it all right if I play with the soldier? I promise I’ll be careful with it. He’s all alone because the other soldiers marched away and left him behind.”

She smiled. “Of course. I’m sure he’s been waiting a long time for a little boy to come and play with him.” She put the soldier in his hand.

“He’s a doctor as well as a soldier. And he’s very brave.”

She planted a kiss on his forehead and gathered up his plate and cup. “Your Mum and Dad will be back in three days. I hope you’ll be well by then.”

When she was gone, he looked at Captain Watson. He thought he might need the wand again, but as soon as she closed the door, he came to life once more.

“Grand-Mère saw you, but she said it’s okay for me to play with you.”

He nodded. “‘Course it is.”

They played all afternoon, the soldier pretending to hunt for enemies among the wrinkles in the coverlet, and Sherlock suggesting places he might look. The soldier was happy to have his leg back, and sometimes stopped to do a happy little jig. Sherlock asked him if he’d like to be an explorer looking for the North Pole, and by the time he’d marched across the coverlet, fighting off polar bears and making an igloo to shelter from the storm, it was getting dark outside.

“Did you always want to be a soldier?” he asked.

The soldier smiled. “I never had a choice. First I was a spoon, and then I was a soldier. What about you? When you grow up, what will you be?”

“I don’t know yet,” he replied.

“That’s good. You’re not ready to be a grown-up yet.”

They played until Grand-Mère brought him some more broth, but also some grapes. He ate every one of them. She read him a story about a Teddy Bear who went on adventures.

“Did you like that story?” she asked.

“It was all right,” he said, rubbing his fingers over the soldier. “I prefer pirates, but a bear who can talk and travel by train is interesting too.”

“Go to sleep now,” she said, kissing his forehead.

The next day was Christmas. As he had expected, it was boring. Grand-Mère let him out of bed to see the small tree in the parlour, bundling him in blankets by the fire. There wasn’t a goose, but the cook had made a small pudding which they flamed. There were no presents.

“Father Christmas has left your presents with your Mum and Dad,” Grand-Mère said. “They’ll be back here to bring you home in two days, if you can wait that long.” She smiled and pushed his curls off his forehead. “You’re much better now. Your fever is nearly gone.”

He didn’t mind, really. He sat by the fire and played with his soldier. When they tired of marching to the North Pole, he slept or read a book.

When it was time to leave Grand-Mère’s house, he wasn’t sure what to do about the tin soldier. He hated the thought of leaving him alone again, in a box with toys that couldn’t talk.

His parents fussed over him, exclaiming how pale he looked.

“I’m all better,” he said.

They talked with Grand-Mère about their trip, and she told them about boring things that grownups always pretend are interesting. And Mycroft sat with them, pretending he was an adult too. Sherlock kept his hand in his pocket, guarding the tin soldier. If he asked Grand-Mère about the soldier, she would show it to every one. His father would exclaim about how valuable it might be, and Mummy would worry about him playing with violent toys, and Mycroft would laugh at him for being attached to an old toy.

It wasn’t an ordinary toy, and ordinary rules about asking permission shouldn’t apply, he decided. He would keep it in his pocket and if anyone noticed, he would pretend he’d forgotten it was there.

When he arrived home, he found a place on his shelf for Captain Watson next to his dinosaurs and the small model of the human skeleton he received for his sixth birthday.

Now that he was well, he could go back to school.

His experience with other children had taught him that he was different. Though he couldn’t define in what way he was different, his classmates could see it at once and tormented him. They zeroed in on the things that he hated most— touching, poking, pulling his hair— and did them until he cried.

He thought about what his soldier had told him: _You don’t know how brave you are until you have to use your courage._

Courage was not merely something that some people had and others lacked; it was something you could acquire, by practice, the same way he had learned to play the violin. He began carrying the soldier in his pocket so he’d remember to be brave during school. It didn’t stop kids from bothering him, but it made it more tolerable. He learned not to react, and this made it less fun for his tormentors. He didn’t cry until he reached home, and usually not even then, because his soldier could talk then and play games..

One day when he was eight, some boys cornered him, asking for money. He told them he didn’t have any, but they grabbed him and rifled through his pockets. One of the boys found his soldier and threw him into the grass. When the bullies finally left, he looked in the grass until he found Captain Watson. He was late coming home that day, but his mother took one look at him and just told him to go wash up for dinner.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point he realised that his soldier didn’t talk any more. He began to look as he had when Sherlock first found him, his leg missing, his paint chipped. And they didn’t play army surgeon or arctic explorer because now Sherlock had a chemistry set and a microscope. He was going to be a scientist, he decided.

School was still difficult. It had become clear to him that he was too different ever to fit in. Other children didn’t want to be friends with him. It didn’t make any difference, though. He only had to reach into his pocket and run his fingers over the tiny figurine to remind himself that he was braver than he realised. Captain Watson had told him so, and it had already come true so many times that it simply _was_ true. He _was_ brave, even when he felt afraid inside.

The soldier had become his talisman.

When it wore a hole in his pockets, his mother stitched them up without asking.

He learned many things as he grew older. He learned that being different was not something he could change about himself, but there were ways to keep people from hurting him. He pretended that he was another person, cold and aloof, and that he didn’t really need friends. His tin soldier has spent years under a bureau, waiting for someone to play with him, and he hadn’t given up. One day Sherlock would find someone who liked his difference and wouldn’t make fun of him for it.

But some of the lessons were hard ones, and being steadfast didn’t seem like enough. He was a young man now, nearly grown, and didn’t play with toys. He had outgrown pretending, and now found his refuge in learning things and solving puzzles. 

When he left for university, he put the soldier in a box with his dinosaurs, his model skeleton, and all the other childish things he’d once treasured.

There were other ways to be brave, he discovered.

The first time he took cocaine, he felt as if he could do anything. This was good, he thought, to be so free of everything. All the fears that he had borne since childhood evaporated like dreams. He could now be like everyone else. Social situations didn’t bother him; people didn’t taunt him. Or if they did, it didn’t matter.

It made him smarter, too, or so it seemed. On cocaine, his brain no longer got tangled in the little things, but soared above them like a cloud. He felt a transcendent clarity of mind where the answers to everything were within reach. He was brilliant.

There was a downside, though, a fairly large one. The high didn’t last, and the aftermath was worse than the _before_. He studied chemistry, and made himself an experiment, using heroin to moderate the manic highs, cocaine to relieve his depression.

He felt himself spiralling out of control, and found he didn’t care. He couldn’t live like this, but dying began to seem like a solution. He left uni and lived on the streets, surviving day to day until he ran out of options.

It was Mycroft who found him before he died. He woke up in hospital, his brother sitting at his side, waiting for him to wake up. When he attempted to move, he found that he was restrained.

“You will tell say that it was unintentional,” Mycroft said softly. “But I know what you were aiming at. I will not allow you to—“

“ _You_ will not allow?” he snarled. “Who are you to tell me—”

“I am your brother,” he replied. “And your life is not your own.” He stood, towering over the bed. “Stop being a coward, running away from who you are. Yes, you are antisocial, awkward, self-absorbed. You are also brilliant, passionate, imaginative. Your life is meant to be more than what you have so far wasted it upon. You are meant to be more.”

He glared at Mycroft. “You’re sending me to rehab.”

“Yes.”

“And if I choose not to take advantage of your generous offer?”

“It isn’t an offer, Sherlock. You _will_ go.” He leaned over his younger brother, studying him intently. “What are you so afraid of? Failure? Rejection? These are nothing.” Smiling, he stood. “Gather your courage, brother. Use what you have been given.”

He went to rehab. Sixty days passed, and then ninety. Mycroft was the only one who came to see him. He never stayed long, but seemed to take him in, assessing in a look what was going on in Sherlock’s mind.

When he had been there four months, Mycroft came again. “Grand-Mère has died. You will come to her funeral. Afterwards, we can discuss whether you are ready to face the world.”

He wore the black suit his brother had bought for him and stood between his parents in the church. The coffin was closed, as his grandmother had wished, and the picture of her displayed was as Sherlock remembered her that Christmas where he’d been ill and she’d taken care of him. He remembered her cool hand on his forehead, the fairy lights on her small tree.

Beside him, his mother cried and took his hand in hers.

Afterwards, the awkward standing around, shaking hands with relatives and strangers, speaking softly, as if it would be a desecration to laugh. He listened as his mother talked to a cousin, telling her that Grand-Mère had died of cancer, that she hadn’t let any family know until the end, when she could no longer take care of herself. Until then, she carried on with her life, playing bridge, gardening, going to book club. She’d had all her papers drawn up, her finances settled, even her own funeral planned, so there was nothing for anyone to do but show up. She had chosen how she wanted to die, and had faced her death without sentiment. _She was stubborn, but very brave_ , his mother said.

As they rode back to his parents’ house in the car, his mother tutted about how thin he was. Mycroft said nothing, but might have told her how much better he looked than the day he found him dying in a dosshouse, overdosed on his chemical experiment. They undoubtedly knew he’d been in rehab, but Mycroft had shielded them from the awfulness of what he’d become.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. Pale and thin, he looked almost like the boy who’d wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else, and had thought he could do that with drugs.

“I almost forgot,” his mother said, rummaging in her bag. “When we cleaned out the house, we found this.” She handed him a flat package. “It has your name on it, so I assumed she intended for you to have it. A memento, I suppose.”

He slid a thin book out of the envelope. _The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Anderson._ There was a drawing of the one-legged soldier on the cover.

He opened the book and read the fly-leaf.

_Cher petit,_

_You'll be the remarkable one._

_Adèle Vernet Sherrinford_

He turned the page and began reading.

_…All the soldiers looked exactly alike except one. He looked a little different as he had been cast last of all. The tin was short, so he had only one leg. But there he stood, as steady on one leg as any of the other soldiers on their two. But just you see, he'll be the remarkable one._

He went back to university for a while, long enough to please his mother by earning a degree. He might have gone on, reading for a higher degree, but he was tired of the academic life. Instead, he found a flat on Montague Street and asked his brother for a loan to start his own business.

“What sort of business?” Mycroft wanted to know.

“Consulting detective,” he replied. “The only one in the world.”

Mycroft might have been skeptical. He studied his brother with those incisive grey eyes for a long minute, and then seemed to see something he liked. “Well, you have always run in the opposite direction from expectations, mine and everyone else’s. I suppose it makes sense at this point to let you loose and see where it takes you.”

He went home for Christmas. At his parents’ house, he packed up whatever he thought he could use. He took his books, class notes, his chemistry set and microscope, and any clothes that still fit. It would be a while before he could afford new things. Taking down the box his microscope was stored in, he found an unlabelled box behind it in the old wardrobe.

As soon as he pried open the flaps, he remembered. His dinosaurs, his childhood books, the model skeleton. And a tiny tin soldier with one leg. The paint was all worn off now, except for a few spots of red on his jacket, his hand still raised, holding an imaginary sword, his stance still proud.

“Well, Captain Watson,” he said.

The soldier looked back at him, unblinking. Once he’d imagined the toy talking, telling Sherlock his story of being the last soldier poured into the mould, of ending up different, unable to do what soldiers are meant to do. An army surgeon who accepted that he was not like the other soldiers and bravely found an occupation for himself, healing the wounded.

He weighed the familiar object in his hand, felt it warm to his touch. There had been many times when all that stood between him and a bully was this small piece of tin in his pocket. He’d worried his fingers over the paint so many times that it had gradually worn away, and it had poked holes in the pockets of so many trousers that it should have been lost long ago. But it remained. His talisman, his reminder to be brave.

He saluted. “Thank you for your service, Captain.”

Slipping the soldier in his pocket, he returned the box to the wardrobe.

Getting clients was difficult. He had hoped word of mouth would be enough, but there were many days when he did not eat, and nights when he turned off the gas and bundled himself in blankets. He drank his tea weak, reusing each bag at least once, spread his butter and jam thin, and didn’t ask his brother for more.

He was a dedicated introvert; he hated promoting himself. It made him feel like a charlatan, hawking his wares. It embarrassed him to hand out his business card and see people squint at it. But too many cold nights and hungry days convinced him that he had to do uncomfortable things if he was to survive. He wore the only suit he owned, the black one his brother had bought him for the funeral, and hoped it made him look older. He began talking to people, striking up conversations, making observations. Some people were impressed, and others said _piss off._

He hated failure. The things he failed at always seemed to involve people, and left an ache in the pit of his stomach. It made him want to inject the liquid confidence of cocaine into his veins. But when he stuck his hand into his pocket to see how much cash he had, he found his tin soldier. He thought of all the terrible places he used to sleep, all the things he’d done to feed himself. He remembered rehab, the days when he thought he’d go mad with craving, his mother’s face when she saw what he’d become. Cocaine was not worth any of that.

_You’ll be the remarkable one._

Years ago, when he’d been living on the streets, he’d met a man who had recognised something in him. He’d stumbled into an alley, high as a kite, and found a murder investigation in progress. Even in his worst moments, he saw things that others missed, and cocaine gave him the bravado to tell this man, this newly-promoted Detective Inspector, what he’d got wrong.

He’d been right that time, but so had Lestrade. Sherlock was brilliant, but he was too messed up to use his brilliance.

“Come and see me when you’re sober,” he’d told Sherlock. “You could be useful, but I can’t work with a junkie.”

Sherlock now presented himself at Scotland Yard, his head held high, and told Lestrade, “I’m ready.”

“I can’t pay you,” the DI replied.

“I’m a consultant. I’ll be satisfied if you give me some of the credit. And you might send people to me for matters the police can’t investigate.”

He got along fine with Lestrade; they developed a sort of grumpy camaraderie. Lestrade would call when he was out of his depth. Even if there wasn’t a case, about once a week he would simply stop by Montague Street and pick Sherlock’s brain for a while.

And when he left, sometimes he’d say, “Oh, there’s this woman who had something odd to report. Nothing we can investigate, but maybe you’d be able to solve it for her.”

He got along less well with Donovan, Lestrade’s sergeant, and Anderson, the tech who usually managed the evidence. They resented Sherlock, calling him names and insulting him when Lestrade wasn’t paying attention. _Freak. Psycho. Piss off._

He felt for the talisman in his pocket and answered them calmly, if not always politely. He turned his deductive talents on them, silencing them. They did not like him because he saw who they were, but they behaved respectfully when Lestrade was around.

Lestrade advised him that he was living in a dump. “Your neighbourhood scares away clients.”

“I can’t afford anything better,” he replied testily.

“Get a loan.”

“I already have a loan.”

But he went back to Mycroft and pleaded his case. If he lived in a nicer area, he might get clients who could pay better. He’d found a flat in Marylebone, he explained, and could almost afford the rent. If Mycroft could lend him just a bit more, he would pay it back with the rest when business picked up.

“You might consider a flatmate,” his brother replied.

He laughed. “Who’d want to live with me?”

He repeated this story to Mike Stamford the following day when he was at Barts. Instead of laughing, though, Mike looked thoughtful. “I’ll spread the word,” he said.

At home, he thought about living with another person. It was sure to be a disaster. He was not an easy man to live with. He didn’t like people, didn’t mince words _ever_ , left every space he occupied untidy.

Changing habits was hard. He’d lost a drug habit, which was hard enough. He’d lost his aversion to people, but still needed time to himself. How would he adapt to another person in his space?

The flat felt cold. He lit a fire in the small hearth and emptied his pockets, putting his change on the small table and setting his soldier on the mantelpiece.

Before he changed into something comfortable, he decided he’d run out for takeaway, maybe Thai. After he returned from that errand, there was a text from Lestrade, asking him questions about some green paint he’d found on the window sill at a crime scene. He changed into his dressing gown and ate his Pad Thai, reading email on his phone. A couple of promising cases merited appointments. Maybe things were picking up.

The flat on Baker Street, though. Mrs Hudson would not hold it forever. She liked Sherlock, unlike most people, and the flat was perfect, but he would need a flatmate. Tomorrow he would move some of his boxes over, he decided, just to show he was serious. She’d hold it a bit longer.

The day had been busy and soon he found himself nodding off. Maybe he should actually get a full night for a change, while he wasn’t tied up with a case. The fire was still burning, though, and it was warm in the sitting room. He pulled the blanket around him and lay on the sofa. He dreamed that he was walking across miles of ice, trying to find the North Pole.

He awoke to find the fire out, the flat freezing, and his phone buzzing. It was Molly Hooper, calling from the morgue at Barts.

“I’ve got a body for you,” she said. “Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice.”

“Excellent. I’ll be over soon.”

Sleep had put him in a much better mood. A body for his experiment with post-mortem bruising was a good start. A shower and a change of clothes, a cup of coffee that didn’t taste awful, and he was ready. Not exactly Christmas, but at least the day was starting off well. Perhaps Mike had even found him a flatmate.

Grabbing his coat off the hook, he tucked his wallet in his pocket, wrapped his scarf around his throat, and headed for the door. His hand on the doorknob, he turned, feeling as if he’d forgotten something.

_Wallet. Keys. Scarf. Gloves._

He walked to the mantel, looking for his soldier. Perhaps it was silly and superstitious to think that carrying it in his pocket would bring him luck, but it had become a habit.

Not luck, courage. _You don’t know how brave you are until you have to use your courage._

The soldier was not on the mantel, even though he remembered putting it there. He lifted the skull (a new addition), looked behind the stack of bills, which were fixed to the mantel with a dagger. He looked on the table, where he’d left his change, and on the floor around the sofa. His talisman was gone.

_Things do not simply disapparate. Objects are not sucked into a void; they do not disintegrate into the air. They are physical, not magical. Matter is conserved. It is here, somewhere._

He stood, looking at the fireplace. A few coals still glowed under the ash.

Impossible: the soldier jumped off the mantel and landed in the fireplace. Improbable: he had knocked it off the mantel last night. He didn’t remember doing it, but of the two explanations, it was the only one possible. The angle wasn’t right for that to have happened unless it hit something else and ricocheted into the fire. He would remember that.

He knelt before the hearth, using a knife to sift through the still warm cinders, until he found something.

Tin has a low melting point. It melts easily on a stove or in a flame, if it’s hot enough.

The lump of tin in the grate could only be his soldier. It had melted into something resembling a heart, a tiny hand flattened against it, its fingers still clenched in an empty grip.

The metal was warm in his hand, and he clutched it tightly for a moment, his eyes stinging. It was foolish, really, to be sad for a toy. Sentimental. He’d never believed in magic, and stopped hearing toys talk years ago. He stopped pretending, grew up, learned what he needed to learn in order to survive.

After a moment, he stood. He considered tossing the lump in the bin, then reached out his hand to leave it on the mantel. _Time to abandon this little habit, this superstitious ritual._

Sighing, he put it in his pocket and walked out the door.

His heightened mood now subdued, he greets Molly and asks to see the body. There is some lividity, as expected. He’s brought a riding crop which he intends to use to beat it. Then he will examine the tissues under a microscope and see what changes he can observe and how those differ from the normal discolouration that occurs after death.

He flogs the body with the riding crop, trying to put everything else out of his mind.

“Bad day?” Molly asks.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. “I’ll need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it.”

Thirty minutes later, he is looking at his first slide, trying his best to ignore Molly, who is having some sort of agenda today. When she offers to get him coffee, he accepts gladly.

He peers through the scope, focusing to see it more clearly, but he isn't really looking at it. The sense of loss will not leave him, and he needs to understand why. He is thinking about a bloody toy, thinking about the life philosophy that grew out of an imaginary conversation. _Foolish_.

To be honest, he might not be alive today if he hadn’t taken hope from those words. The words were not imaginary; they came from somewhere inside himself, telling him what he needed to hear at the age of six, and again at seventeen, and so many times in between. There was no magic involved, and the loss of a talisman doesn't portend bad luck. He has no reason to feel sad; he, Sherlock, did this, motivating himself with a simple trick. He has not lost anything but a lump of tin.

He fingers the lump in his pocket, berating himself for sentiment, but unable to rationalise it away. Hearing voices in the corridor, he ducks his head and stares through the microscope, realising at once that he’s already removed the slide.

One of the voices is Mike, and he knows that he is about to meet a potential flatmate. He reaches into his pocket again, touching his talisman. _Be nice. Maybe this will work out._

He glances at the person Mike is about to introduce to him. _Army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan, or maybe Iraq. Walking with a cane, but that’s not why he’s been sent home. A serious injury, probably in his shoulder. He’s a very good doctor, but he’s lost his purpose, unable to do surgery because of his wounds._

Mike steps towards him. “An old friend of mine, John Watson.”

The soldier holds out his hand. His eyes are dark blue, his hair blond. He’s patiently bearing what feels unbearable. He’s been cast aside and forgotten. But he’s brave, so very brave.

_You’ll be the remarkable one, John Watson._

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, taking the hand. “I play the violin sometimes when I’m thinking. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about one another.”

The soldier looks a bit suspicious. He turns to Mike. “You told him about me?”

“Not a word.” Mike smiles.

_You’ve been found, John. I’ve found you._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” by Hans Christian Andersen (1838).


End file.
